by Betina Krahn
“What?” Michael braced as if he expected a fist to answer him.
“Somethin’ you an’ me would both remember.”
“You mean . . . like . . . the time you danced in and out of a twirling rope, doing tricks, and impressed the hell out of our houseguests? If I remember properly, that night you roped a calf and a countess—in that very order. Whatever happened to her? The countess, not the calf.” He glanced between Red and Sarah. “Lady Evelyn something.”
“She come to a bad end, poor thing.” Red flicked a look at Sarah before declaring, “She married me.” He grinned at his own shop-worn joke. Briefly. “Answer me this,” he went on, intent once again. “If yer really bug-happy Arthur come home, what’s the name of that big butterfly Daisy wore on her dress at that first ball?”
“You remember that?” Michael realized Red was serious and rubbed his forehead, thinking. “I believe it was . . . a purple emperor. Yes, she had paired it with a yellow Cleopatra on her shoulder. But then, she had a Parnassius apollo in her hair. It was lovely. The butterfly, not her hair.” He gave a start. “That’s not to say her hair wasn’t nice—I’m sure it was. It’s just that the butterflies were such a pleasant surprise. At the time, that seemed more important than”—he slowed—“anything else.”
In that moment Red must have made his decision. He laughed out loud at the rueful look on Michael’s face.
“Those eyes . . . that stubborn jaw . . . he knows stuff . . . even talks like ’im.” He turned to Sarah with visible relief. “This ain’t no imposter—it’s Artie. The duke Daize set her cap for some time back.”
“Are you sure, Uncle Red? This is very important,” she admonished.
“Sure as snow in January,” Red crowed, grabbing Arthur’s arm and pumping his hand. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, boy, what happened to ye? Yer brown as a tater, hard as a brick wall, an’ got hair like a girl.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “I traveled and had some . . . adventures.”
“Ye look like somebody took a knife to you an’ whittled away everything you could live without. An’ yer voice—I don’t recall it soundin’ like ye got a craw full of gravel.”
“I suffered a little damage to my throat.” He looked to Sarah with growing relief. “Your uncle knows me. He recognizes me.” His squared shoulders relaxed as if some of the burden of doubt and mistrust had been lifted from them. “You were at the Earl of Albemarle’s with Daisy when I went there to see his gardens,” he told Red. “You fleeced the earl at billiards—got him so distracted by your cowboy stories, he couldn’t concentrate on his shots.”
“I did.” Red nodded with shameless pleasure.
“And you were there at Beulah McNeal’s when Ash and I beat the tar out of each other.”
“What was that?” Sarah’s bid for an explanation was ignored. Then she remembered the puffy eyes and fading bruises both men sported at Daisy’s wedding. They had fought over Daisy? She was just a young girl at the time, but she remembered the looks the wedding guests exchanged and the whispers her mother and the countess tried to keep from her ears. Her throat tightened as her uncle nodded to confirm those recollections.
Arthur’s relief at being believed, sent a stab of guilt through her. He had endured terrible hardships as he journeyed home, and when he finally arrived, he faced doubt and even more difficulty. However understandable and even sensible her handling of his claim was, it now seemed almost cruel. When he reached for her hands and squeezed them, she shrank inside.
With the sharing of a few tattered memories, Michael in truth had just become Arthur the former Duke of Meridian. It didn’t matter that she had privately come to believe him; having it established independently and openly meant they would have to deal with it.
“You really are Arthur,” she said past the lump in her throat.
He was flushed and grinning, and she wanted so much to slide her arms around him and take part in his intense and long-awaited joy. But she knew that this revelation brought with it a whole new set of problems. Reluctantly, she chose sensible once again.
“Welcome home. Although calling you Arthur will take some getting used to. I rather liked Michael.” She squeezed his hands and feared her eyes were saying a great deal more than they should. That fear was realized when he pulled her into his arms and hugged her so tightly she forgot to breathe.
“You can call me Michael . . . Arthur . . . whatever you like, Sarah.”
She could feel Red’s gaze taking in that embrace and groaned silently.
“Well”—Red cleared his throat, shuffling past them to the nearest chair and collapsing into it—“that’s settled. Cow turds an’ trail dust, I’m achin’ somethin’ awful. I rode more’n eight hours straight. My horse is plum tuckered out. You got any o’ your liniment, Sarah girl? I reckon me an’ ol’ Renegade could both use some.”
She broke away from Michael and tried not to blush. “Cow turds an’ trail dust? Really, Uncle Red?”
“I been tryin’ not to cuss so much,” he said. “It sets Evie’s teeth on edge. Especially when the parson comes to lunch.” His expression turned downright pitiful and pleading. “Liniment? Please?”
* * *
Red’s saddle-inflicted ailments were soon tended, after which he took a much-needed nap. Cook outdid herself with dinner later, and when she was called upstairs to the dining room for recognition, Arthur and Red vied to ply her with extravagant compliments that made the sturdy, sensible woman giddy with delight. After dinner, the threesome adjourned to the parlor, and talked for a good while over brandy and coffee. It was the most relaxed Sarah had seen Michael—Arthur—since he was carried unconscious through Betancourt’s front doors.
Between Red and herself, they managed to fill him in on Red’s and her sisters’ marriages and astonished him with the news that Frankie had married Reynard Boulton and would soon give birth to their first child.
“The Fox? She married Reynard Boulton?” He looked dumbfounded. “Did a horse kick her in the head or something?”
Red laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair. “Aw, he’s not so bad,” he declared, sobering. “Got me an’ the family out of a few scrapes. Now that he’s the vi-count an’ fixin’ to be a pa . . . he’s turned downright respectable.”
“That I’ll have to see with my own eyes.” Arthur shook his head with a quiet chuckle. “The Fox all devoted and domestic.”
“You may have to wait a while for that,” Sarah chimed in. “Frankie had some difficulty at the start of the pregnancy, and Reynard was frantic with worry. He hardly left her side for weeks. I can only imagine what he’ll be like once the baby is here.”
“Speakin’ of scrapes,” Red declared, steering the conversation astray. “I want to hear about these varmints you got roamin’ Betancourt.”
She looked to Mic—Arthur, who grew serious and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “It’s a small band, we think. They’ve struck the Crotons twice now—did a fair amount of damage this time. They took stock at two other farms, under cover of night. Odd thing is, they didn’t enter the houses at those farms. They can’t have gotten much of value—except livestock and chickens. At first, when there were just a few head missing, the farmers thought somebody was just stealing for food.”
“But after today,” Sarah continued, “it’s clear they’re after more than that. They beat Jess Croton and tore down fences . . . stole what they could carry and killed what they couldn’t. And they shot at us as we were coming through the woods.”
“Whadda they look like?” Red gingerly adjusted his seat on a pillow.
“It happened so fast . . .” Sarah shook her head and looked at Arthur.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, thinking. “The two that came after us had kerchiefs over their faces.” He frowned. “The horses looked to be plain saddle stock. One used a pistol and the other had a rifle, but neither was much of a shot. Either that or they didn’t intend to hit us.” He took a deep breath. “Can’
t say which, given how hard it is to hit a moving target from horseback.”
“Damned straight it’s hard,” Red declared, studying Arthur. “So, you got rustlers and outlaws . . . yer farmers are sittin’ ducks . . . an’ the bastards have got Sarah’s Fancy Boy.” He rubbed his palms together and broke into a grin. “We got us a fight on our hands!”
“We?” Sarah’s gaze slid from him to the pillow he nested on.
“Hell, yes.” Red straightened on his seat, trying not to show his discomfort. “I ain’t had any excitement in months and I’m a damned good shot. Ye think I’d let you go up against these varmints without me?”
She looked to Arthur with a sigh of resignation. “If he survives our varmints, Red’s countess is going to kill him.”
Chapter Twelve
Later that night, as the lamps were extinguished and the great house settled into darkness, Sarah made her customary rounds and stopped by the library at the rear of the house. There, a large window with a cozy window seat afforded a good view of the butterfly garden. Despite the moonless sky, there was enough light for her to see that Arthur hadn’t made his usual night visit to the garden. She stood for a moment, taking in the serenity that Arthur found so absorbing, then she left the room in disappointment.
Returning through the darkened hallway, she spotted light coming from the study, paused to listen, and then nudged the door open. Arthur was braced over an unrolled map on the desktop. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice her until she spoke.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped—“You startled me”—then straightened and pulled two paperweights onto the map to hold it in place.
“I’m looking for what Red calls hideouts—out-of-the-way places these outlaws might go to store their booty and ‘lay low.’” He gave her a wry look. “You know, your uncle’s got a whole passel of terms for criminal endeavors. It makes a body wonder how he acquired them all.”
“No mystery there. He’s had a few run-ins with varmints in his day. He was a prospector, after all. That’s a rough trade . . . alone in the hills . . . searching for gold and silver. There were claim jumpers and thieves aplenty . . . too much whiskey around and not enough lawmen.
“He’s a tough old bird. In a fight, you’d want him at your back,” she continued. “Just ask Reynard. He and Reynard rescued Frankie from a kidnapping, you know. As you Brits would say, he acquitted himself most admirably.” She came to stand near him and look over the map he’d been studying, aware that he was staring at her.
“What have you found?” she asked.
“That you Bumgartens are a dangerous lot,” he said in that deep rumble he used when he was feeling something interesting.
“Red’s not a Bumgarten, he’s a Strait.” She sensed that peculiar tingling in her skin that only occurred in close proximity to him.
“I am not referring to your uncle. You do realize that the first time I saw you, you were breaking a fellow’s nose? After which you practically kicked another poor sod’s wedding tackle into next week. The second time I saw you, you were packing pistols—one of which was pointed at me.”
“Sakes.” She produced a demure smile. “You make me sound like a harridan.”
“More like a woman to be reckoned with.”
She was standing too close to him, Heaven knew, but she refused to retreat. There were things in life that a woman had to experience to understand, and this surge of anticipation was one of them. Then he ran a finger down the side of her face, along her jaw, and across her lips.
“What are you doing?” she said, her nerves tingling along the path he’d blazed in her skin.
“Reckoning.”
He leaned toward her slowly, as if giving her time to choose. It seemed like an age before his lips met hers and she responded with a soft moan that was as much relief as it was pleasure. It’s about bloody time.
Her hands slid up his chest, traced his corded neck, and curled in his hair. It was thick and soft and twined around her fingers as if claiming them. She molded herself against him, marveling at the way her body heated where it was pressed against his. She wanted him closer, harder against her . . . wanted to explore all of the variations of caresses, embraces, and kisses . . . there must be hundreds—thousands—millions of them.
Boundaries she hadn’t realized she lived within were suddenly gone. Possibility and experience became so much larger and grander than she’d ever imagined. How could kissing a man, mingling desire, pleasure, and purpose with a specific man—Arthur—make such a difference in her?
She felt lighter than air and suspended in time and space . . . she might simply float away if not anchored by his big, hard body. In her spiraling thoughts, she realized he not only held her close, he supported and grounded her. Her perception, her life, her very world was changing because of him.
She ran her hands up his broad back, stretching her hands, filling them with his hard muscles . . . exploring him the way she hadn’t even allowed herself to imagine. Everything was suddenly possible in those deep, clinging kisses . . . traded breaths . . . tantalized senses.
His hands slid over her shoulders, back and waist, sending shivers of anticipation through her awakening body. She was sure he could feel her trembling against him, but didn’t care if he knew how powerfully he affected her. It was enthralling, being with him like this.
Somehow they turned and she began to sink. The intensity of his kisses eased and when his embrace loosened, she found herself bent backwards over the map, with him braced above her. His breath was coming fast and his eyes shone in the lamplight.
“You are so beautiful, Sarah. So strong and determined. There is nothing you don’t know or can’t do.” He stroked her face and let his fingertips trail down her throat and across one breast. A subtle change came over his face. “But . . . you’re Daisy’s sister . . . you’re so much . . .” He shook his head, unable to find words. “And I’m . . . I’ve . . .”
In her mind she supplied them for him.
But you’re not Daisy, you’re Daisy’s sister. You’re so much like her, but you’ll never be her. And I’m still in love with her. I’ve traveled the world trying to get over her ...
As she sat up, he withdrew and watched her with an anxious look, clearly trying to gauge how she was taking his half-coherent rejection.
And how did he expect her to take the news that she wasn’t her older sister’s equal? That whatever pleasure and joy she brought him couldn’t compare to what he had felt with Daisy? She slid from the desk and faced him for a moment, feeling a very different set of emotions rising in her . . . a stew of longings denied and pride scoured raw. How could she have been so stupidly gullible again?
She raised her chin, though she refused to meet his gaze. Her jaw clenched as she fought the humiliation settling over her like a shroud.
“Goodnight, Arthur.”
She walked calmly out the door.
By the time she reached her room and closed the door behind her, tears blurred her vision but she wouldn’t let them fall. She was not going to crumble and moan over the loss of some imagined attachment. The cold truth was, she was a place-holder in his heart. If she had any doubt about that, his halting admission in the study had dispelled it.
She was not going to cry.
Oh, Lord, she was crying.
She had lost Fancy, that was enough of a blow. And now she had lost Arthur as well. Not that she’d ever really had him.
She gave in to a few sobs and some quieter tears, then took a deep breath and told herself sternly, That is enough of that.
She undressed and slipped into her nightgown, forcing herself to think about all the things she had neglected that day . . . overseeing the horses’ training, planning much-needed renovations in the dairy, approving purchases from the village tradesmen, making certain Mazie and Deidre were inventorying the linen pantry. She had too much to do to get bogged down in absurd hopes and futile longings.
Through a night that
seemed to stretch to eternity, she tossed and turned . . . lit a lamp and tried to read a book . . . wrote to her sisters Frankie and Cece . . . and then tried once again to make herself fall asleep. Staring at the canopy above her bed, she traced the vines printed on the fabric and thought of Frankie and the coming baby. A baby. She suddenly felt a powerful longing to see that little one, to hold him or her. To kiss those little cheeks . . . and touch that little nose . . .
She realized she was holding her arms as if a baby lay in them, and clamped them to her sides in dismay. She didn’t want to think about the future, the prospect of many lonely years being “useful” to others. She had always joked to her sisters that she was the one who would be left unmarried, at home, taking care of their aging mother. It didn’t seem quite so amusing now.
Her thoughts circled back to Frankie. Perhaps she could sneak back into London to see her sister when the baby came. She could use some sisterly care and advice, and Frankie had always been free with both.
But if she left Betancourt, would she ever come back?
What was there here for her?
She had always known that the place she claimed here was temporary. At best she was Betancourt’s caretaker, a substitute for her brother-in-law. She had expected she would have to give way to Ash when he came back to England. But she hadn’t counted on coming to love it here . . . on growing attached to the house, the peculiar staff, the beautiful horses . . . to Arthur.
Tears rolled in earnest again. Was that to be her role in life? Healing and improving homes and hearts, only to have to hand them over to someone with a prior claim?
The kernel of anger banked under her hurt finally flared.
No—damn and blast it!—she deserved better. She was willing to work hard to see Betancourt restored, but not without recompense.
For the few days she tended Arthur, she wondered how Daisy could have chosen Ashton over him. He was so manly and knowledgeable and capable. He was even funny in a “what-did-I-say” kind of way. He wasn’t at all what she had come to expect from her mother’s and sisters’ descriptions. Either their assessment of him had been appallingly off the mark, or he was a very changed man. And if he didn’t want her, only saw her as her sister’s replacement, then what the hell was he doing kissing her like she was the very desire of his heart?